


Cura Te Ipsum

by ehmazing



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), F/M, Kink Meme, Pain Sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26911363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/pseuds/ehmazing
Summary: Hubert invents a spell to lessen his lady's pain. Unfortunately, as the war goes on, his invention goes awry.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 27
Kudos: 88
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Cura Te Ipsum

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt: Edelbert pain sharing](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=1581532#cmt1581532)
> 
> "Hubert finds a spell that can transfer pain (physical or emotional) and, of course he decides to use it in Lady Edelgard's favor and quite literally shoulder her burdens.
> 
> bonus: Hubert quickly finds out it shares more than just pain
> 
> Make it as angsty or as funny as you wish, go wild."
> 
> I chose…angst…… Set in the CF timeskip.

**i. Panacea**

A fall is to blame.

Hubert didn’t see it happen, didn’t know at all until it was late in the day, the fog-smothered sun starting to creep back under the horizon. The soil of the battlefield is hard underfoot, still frozen from the late winter frost. His boots are caked in more blood than dirt. Another victory, bitter and filthy.

He’s been separated from Edelgard in battle before; he’s built a routine around it. He sees to logistical matters first, the hundred little tasks spawned for every hundred soldiers that will need replacing. By the time he reaches the generals’ tent, he knows he need only ask, “Has Her Majesty returned?” and she’ll turn around, weary, white-faced, exactly where he expected her. The same answer to the same question every time.

But this time the answer is, “Her Majesty was trapped under a falling wyvern when it took heavy fire. The medics are seeing to her. They said that her leg was snapped in three when General Aegir retrieved her—the Goddess Herself still watches over us, surely.”

“Surely,” Hubert repeats. His feet are numb; he cannot blame the cold.

They’ve given her the honor of a hanging sheet to partition her cot from the rest. Edelgard is sitting upright when he enters, clutching an empty bottle. A healer moves his glowing hands over her right leg, her greave unbuckled and stocking cut away to bare the bruise-mottled skin. As the spell travels from knee to shin to ankle, there is the sickening sound of bone rejoining bone.

“I wish you’d come sooner, Your Majesty,” the healer says. He nods to the bottle in Edelgard’s hands. “I would’ve been able to give you something stronger for the pain.”

“It’s alright.” Her brow is shiny with sweat. Someone has removed her crown, and sloppily at that—one knot is slipping loose, strands of hair sticking against her neck. A trio of fading pink lines streaks across her face from chin to cheek. _From the wyvern’s claws,_ Hubert realizes, _flailing on its way down._ "I’ve borne worse things than watered-down whiskey.”

Soon the healing spell dims and her grip on the bottle relaxes. She lets out a long breath between her teeth as she carefully bends her knee, drawing it to her chest and then down again.

“It’s unfortunate, Hubert,” she says without glancing in his direction. “I owe Ferdinand a life debt. I’m terrified of how he’ll pitch this to the historians: _‘Were it not for the timely intervention of the young, dashing Lord Aegir, Emperor Edelgard I would’ve been smothered to death beneath an overgrown winged lizard that she herself ordered shot down.’”_

Hubert must take care not to grind his teeth.

“With respect, Your Majesty,” he manages to say, not snarl, “I don’t share your sense of humor.”

Despite the partition, it’s too easy to remember where they are. Moans and wails come from all sides, the cries of the not-dead, the may-be-dying. Hubert registers the arrival of a second medic, understands that she’s saying something about another patient needing all hands, but he can only focus on the rusty stains coating her apron.

“Go to him,” Edelgard orders them. “I will not have a young man die for the sake of the Emperor’s leg.”

The sheet flutters as the medics hurry away. They are alone.

Edelgard sighs, wiping her forehead on her sleeve. She bends her leg again, more smoothly this time. “Could you help me up?”

“No.”

“Could you help me up, _please?”_

“They said three hours before you should try walking.”

“The medics don’t have to figure out how we’re going to feed the troops while half our supply wagons are trapped at the border. I do.” She narrows her eyes. "Help me up.”

Hubert stares impassively back. “If you’re so sure you can stand, Your Majesty, then you must need no assistance. I will escort you back when you’re ready.”

To his dismay, Edelgard’s eyes flash with the challenge. Hitching her skirts out of the way, she maneuvers herself to sit on the very edge of the cot, her feet dangling above the ground. She stretches her bad leg and slowly touches it, toe to heel, on the dirt.

It turns his stomach to hear her scream.

Hubert steps forward at last. As carefully as he can, he lifts her legs to pivot her back onto the cot. The whimper of pain when he touches her knee cuts through him like a knife.

“Stupid, so stupid,” she hisses. “A wyvern! Not a lance, not a mace, not even the dignity of being blasted by mages over some rocky cliffside.”

He examines her shin. The darkest bruises are clustered where the bone must have pushed through the skin. They’re lightening steadily, but not as quickly as he would like.

“There might not be any vulneraries left, but I could find you a better whiskey,” he offers. He peels some of the hair away from her neck. The dried, dirty strands crackle like straw between his fingers.

“No. I just want you to—” Her breath comes out through her teeth again as she moves to slowly lie back down. He supports the back of her head as she does, smoothing the loose knot aside. His hand lingers without meaning to; he strokes his thumb over her temple. The loud moan of another wounded soldier sounds from the other side of the sheet. Edelgard screws her eyes shut, both hands clenching on her thigh. “Could you just…”

By the time three hours are up, Hubert is determined to make sure she never visits this tent again.

* * *

Hubert has never been particularly gifted at spellcraft, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He’s not a creator, just a problem-solver. He’s good for sniffing out the errors in Linhardt’s experiments, the weaknesses in Dorothea’s shields, but he’d rather trust someone else’s expertise when it comes to inventing spells from whole cloth.

But he doesn’t need to create anything new, he reminds himself as he pores over his books, eyes aching in the dim candlelight. He just needs to adapt someone else’s solution. Siphoning spells are tricky things, but the formulas have existed for centuries: Nosferatu, Philinnion, Addhéma. It doesn’t surprise him, though, that he can’t find exactly what he’s looking for. He can’t imagine the average battle mage _wanting_ a bad effect to double back on themselves.

The other problem is that he can’t erase all of Edelgard’s pain, not completely. Even if she stayed off the battlefield, she’s always been too-aware of her body, of any change in it that doesn’t seem natural. She voiced more of her concerns when she was younger— _Hubert, I feel so hot, do you think I’m sick? Hubert, my hands keep shaking, are they broken?_ —but even if she keeps quiet now, he knows she hasn’t outgrown those fears. If this spell is going to help, it must be subtle enough that she won’t notice.

After nearly a week of trial and error, he underlines the solution at the top of his notes:

_** For the subject to be relieved by half, the siphon must feel the effect in full. ** _

The revised sigil comes together quickly. Now the only task left is the most difficult one.

Edelgard is hunched over her desk, scratching notes in the margins of a map that are already overflowing. The candle is low enough to start spilling over its base, wax hissing as it meets the tabletop, but she doesn’t notice. Hubert licks his fingers to pinch it out at the same time he lights the next with a quick spell.

“Oh.” Startled by the spark, Edelgard blinks and looks up at him. “Thank you.”

He waves away the thin stream of smoke. “Though I have the utmost faith in your tactical abilities, Your Majesty, I doubt you’re going to end the deadlock in one evening alone.”

“I know, I know,” she says, but she doesn’t get up, flicking through another stack of notes at her side. “Just a few more minutes. I’ll turn in when the clock strikes one.”

“Four, you mean?”

“Four?” Edelgard twists in her seat to look at the clock. “Ah. Then four, I suppose.” She rubs at her eyes; the skin beneath them looks sallow. When she reaches for the quill again, Hubert stops her hand before it lands.

“If you wish, Your Majesty,” he begins, careful to lie as little as possible, “there is a healing spell I could perform to put you at ease. The effect is temporary, of course, but it might help.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Faith magic? Now you have me curious. I thought you only knew a few spells, and you’re usually so stingy with them. I recall being denied treatment some years ago, in fact.”

“Yes. I apologize for neglecting to heal your terrible, terrible papercut.”

She rolls her eyes but pushes her chair back from the desk, work abandoned. “What spell is it?”

“One of my own adaptation.”

“Name?”

“None yet.” At her disappointment, he adds, “You may choose one, if you wish. But as it’s only a personal project, I didn’t see the need to grant it a classification.”

Edelgard mulls this over, then nods. “Alright. I’m too intrigued to refuse.” She offers her hand, palm up, as a patient would to a medic. “You may do your worst.”

Her choice of phrase is almost enough to make his guilt override his determination. Almost, but not quite.

Hubert directs her to stand up and turn, her back facing him. Her hair is gathered in a low plait, which he carefully drapes over her shoulder to keep it out of the way. As he does, he can feel her twitch when his hand glances against her neck.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Are my hands—?"

“No, no. Not cold.” He can’t see her expression, but her throat clenches as she swallows. “You’re fine. Continue.”

Though her dressing robe isn’t very thick, Hubert uses his thumb to press down and feel for the ridge of her spine beneath her nightdress, counting the vertebrae to make sure he’s in the right place. As he readies the spell, he reminds himself that the side effects, if any, should be harmless. There’s a much higher chance that the whole thing will sputter out than do something detrimental to the subject. _And the longer you stand here doing nothing but fret, the more cause you’ll give her to doubt._

So he inhales deeply and presses his palm flat. The incantation seems so loud in his head that it’s a wonder Edelgard can’t hear it too. Thin white lines of light flicker from underneath her clothes, the magic following the nerves of her body. They flow to the base of her spine and then into his hand, twisting up his arm, burrowing into his skin. When the last fades away, he pulls back.

“How do you feel?”

Edelgard is quiet for a moment before she seems to realize he’s waiting for an answer. “Oh—well, nothing bad. Somewhat…lighter?” She turns around, fiddling with the tail of her plait.

“At ease?” he prompts.

“Yes,” she answers, but when the clock chimes four she jumps, then laughs at her reaction. “I suppose you will hold me to my promise now.”

Hubert smiles. “Indeed.”

He stands aside as she clears the desk, capping the inkwell and straightening the stacks of paper. He sees his opportunity when she bends to reach a drawer. As her right hand moves to withdraw from it, he shifts just enough to jostle the desk—knocking the drawer closed and pinching the tips of her fingers.

As soon as she flinches, he hurries to yank it back open, exclaiming, “Your Majesty! I’m so sorry, that was terribly clumsy of me."

“It’s alright,” Edelgard stops him. She examines her hand, flexing her fingers. “It barely stings.” She smiles, reassuring. “Just a sign that we should _both_ turn in for the night.”

Hubert bows his head. “Of course.”

He opens the door for her with his left hand. Behind his back, his right still throbs.

* * *

The first trial is a success, even if there are few results to evaluate. Edelgard is a skilled fighter, after all; she does not often break her legs. So Hubert moves his work desk to a room with a view of the training yard. With the visual help, he learns how to mask the winces his body wants to make when she’s hit with the blunt end of a wooden spear or the flat side of a practice sword. His skin never bruises, for just as planned, only the sensation of her pain is siphoned.

When they next go into battle, it’s to chase the Faersh from the expanding northern border yet again. He feels the same aching feet from marching, the same cramped shoulders from the weight of armor. Edelgard takes some hits, but nothing worse than Hubert has taken on his own before. Just knowing that his sore limbs have spared hers makes the next day almost effortless to bear.

But as the month draws to a close, Hubert looks out of his new window in time to see Caspar’s fists blow past her defenses. He waits, but no pain blooms in his gut as Edelgard hunches over, panting.

This is still a sign of success. The spell’s effects are temporary, as he predicted. So to keep it up, he would have to cast it again.

When he finds Edelgard in the library that evening, the ends of her hair are still damp from her bath. He drapes a shawl over her shoulders in lieu of announcing himself.

“It’s the Pegasus Moon, in the mountains, in the room with the least fireplaces in the entire monastery,” he says before her protest has even begun. “One day I expect I’ll have to wake you in the morning by chipping you out of an icicle.”

Edelgard sighs, adjusting the fringed ends around her shoulders. “So long as you don’t force mittens on my hands in front of the troops."

“I was thinking of gloves, but now that you mention it, mittens do sound easier.”

It wins a dry scoff from her as he sits down in the other chair at the reading table. A glance at her stack of books tells him she’s still working on the aqueduct product, even though the meeting adjourned hours ago. As Edelgard turns a page, he catches her other hand drift down and rub at her stomach.

“Still smarting from the bout?”

She looks up with confusion at first, then surprise. “How did you know I was hit?”

“Caspar avoided me all throughout dinner.” That’s true, at least. “And your posture is giving the rest away.”

She snatches her hand away from the sore spot. “Don’t start this now,” she warns him. “You know that I have to train just as hard as anyone else. Nothing you say will keep me off the battlefield, so don’t say it.”

“I know,” Hubert sighs. “I was going to say, ‘Still smarting from the bout? I can help.’”

Her eyebrows go up. “Oh. …Really?” As guilt crosses her face, he tries to ignore his own. “Well, it’s not so bad. I should let it heal itself. A bad reminder of a good lesson, as they say.”

“Your Majesty, you are not required to suffer just because you lost a match to Caspar.” He adds, “I also came to remind you that tomorrow, we ride down to Remire to check on the construction progress. Would you like this bad reminder to last the whole trip on horseback?”

This time when she stands, he places one hand on her back and the other over her lower ribs. He gets her to close her eyes to take some of the pressure off—another truth—and casts the siphoning spell first so that he can feel the punch in his own gut for a moment, to know it worked. A second heal then steals the rest away.

“Done,” he declares, and moves to pull his hands back.

But the shawl’s fringe snags on the buttons of his sleeve—he pulls, and tugs Edelgard with him. She throws a hand against his chest to catch herself with a squeak of surprise.

“Sorry, hold on,” Hubert hurriedly apologizes, trying to twist his wrist free, but to no avail. The longer he struggles, the funnier Edelgard seems to find the situation.

“Stop moving,” she finally commands with a laugh, “you’re going to rip it! Here!” She grasps his wrist to hold him still so she can pick the snagged thread away. He’s forced to look at the top of her head while she works, to inhale the scent of her freshly-washed hair. Once freed, he takes a large step backward, apologizing again.

“Are you sure you should heal me so often?” she teases. “Expending Faith magic seems to rob you of your grace.”

“Then take more care in the future, Your Majesty, and spare us both.”

Truth, again, in every word.

* * *

It gets easier. Hubert gets used to a stiff shoulder from an axe he doesn’t wield, a crick in his neck from restless nights he sleeps through. It is half-fascinating, half-frustrating to learn how much pain Edelgard has managed to hide from him before: a sore thumb she’s never spoken of from writing report after report, blisters on her heels from shoes she’s worn for months without complaint. Without waiting for permission, he replaces her office chair with a more comfortable one and gets rid of the cabinet with the sharp corners she’s bumped her hip on more than once. If she notices the little changes, he always has a reason ready to explain why.

The war does not advance. Every time Thales sees fit to show his borrowed face and deliver more demands, Hubert bears Edelgard’s throbbing headache for hours afterward.

“What do they want from me?” she seethes, fists balled tight. “To march up there and melt down the damned mountain range so the army can cross into Charon? Am I expected to hitch my skirts and ford the River Magdred to knock on Arianrhod’s door?”

“Now that’s a sight that would boost morale,” he tries to joke. “Two little gold horns poking out of the water.”

She balls up a report to throw at him, but the headache soon abates.

He should have known, though, that it would not always be so easy.

Every few months, the Church attempts a raid on the monastery; usually aiming to destroy their supply stores, or set fire to the forest, or cause some other time-consuming setback. This time it’s an attempt to sabotage one of the bridges on the widest road on the mountain, the only one sturdy enough to move large wagons over. As he and Edelgard hurry with a small band to chase them off, Hubert is already furiously calculating how many months and tons of stone this may cost.

Arrows fly. Swords clash. Hubert knocks a few unlucky knights off the edge with a wave of dark spikes, then draws the fire of a mage away from their calvary. Though powerful, the enemy’s hands are unsteady when he casts. When his hood blows back, Hubert notes his lined face and receding hairline mean he’s probably a repurposed monk. Pity that the Archbishop never warned him about conscription when he made his vows. Hubert dodges the cutting winds and readies a volley of miasma—

Only to drop it with a cry as his left hand seizes with pain.

There, ahead: Edelgard and a Holy Knight, axes clashing. As the Knight bashes her shield against Edelgard’s, the pain flares again, and Hubert realizes that a collision must have broken her fingers. He's relieved that the shield is still strapped to her arm, sparing the rest of her.

He cries out again when another wind slices through his shoulder.

Gritting his teeth, Hubert manages to make a sloppy circle with his hands and twist the winds back at the monk, mixing his own poison into a hurricane gale. His aim isn't perfect, but the shot is wide enough to catch the monk anyway, and soon his body falls limp on the stone. Hubert gives himself only enough time to gulp down a vulnerary before lunging back into the fray.

In the end, they’re left with twelve dead enemies, two lost allies, and an intact bridge. When the medics arrive, Hubert pulls away from the healer who reaches for his bleeding shoulder.

“Fix her first,” he growls, pointing to Edelgard. “Her left hand. Thumb, first, and second fingers.”

“No, fix _him,”_ she cuts back at once. “Hubert, you’re still bleeding!”

“Order of rank. The Crown first before the generals. No exceptions, Your Majesty.”

The healer pales at the tirade that pours from Edelgard’s mouth at that, but they manage to get ahold of her left hand. Hubert has to hide his exhale of relief as the bones he hasn’t broken knit back together at last. His own wound still throbs, neglected.

It is worth it to spare that bridge, even at the price of being out of imperial favor for three days after.

* * *

He clings to his own rule: that she must agree to be healed to do it. The first handful of times she was prideful, called him fussy, didn’t see her cramped wrist or bruised shins as anything urgent. But late one night, he awakens to a well-known knock at his door. Edelgard has wiped her face dry, but her eyes are still puffy and red. She clutches the tie of her dressing gown with nail-bitten fingers.

She swallows thickly before asking, “Could you do that spell? The one you made up?”

Hubert hesitates, hand still wrapped around the edge of the open door. “I could. But it doesn’t guarantee sleep.”

“I don’t care. It would be better if it prevented sleep, actually. I just want to feel…to feel lighter, I guess.”

His monastery room hasn’t changed much since their school days: the same narrow bed, the same shaky desk bearing now double the load of work. Hubert quickly kicks a crumpled pile of clothes aside to drag his chair out for Edelgard to sit in. She agrees to wait until he can get her a cup of tea—“It will probably do you more good than my magic.”—and when he returns, neither of them mention that the pile is now neatly folded on top of his trunk.

She drinks the tea before it has fully cooled. Hubert’s tongue feels the burn.

“Why did you craft a Faith spell, anyway?”

He shrugs. “Why does anyone craft spells? To solve problems.”

“What problem does this one solve?”

How not to lie to her? “You said it yourself: it makes loads lighter to bear.”

Edelgard finishes the tea in one swallow, scorching the back of his throat.

“I suppose that is a common problem,” she murmurs, more to the empty cup than to him.

Without prompting, she lets her dressing gown slip down her arms. With only her thin shift beneath, he doesn’t need to use much pressure to feel for the right place on her back. The moment his hand presses down, Edelgard sighs. Her skin radiates warmth through the fabric. The white magic dances over the skin of her neck like small streaks of lightning.

“There you go,” Hubert says. He squeezes her shoulder to let her know she may turn around. But before he lifts his hand away, she reaches up—and traps it there under hers.

He freezes. Her shoulder rises and falls softly with her breath. After a moment, he lifts his other hand to place it on the opposite, and she covers that one too. They stand there, unmoving, hand over hand. He cannot see her face. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

Then, just as suddenly as she reached for him, Edelgard removes her hands and pulls away.

“Thank you, Hubert,” she says. She shrugs her dressing gown back on without looking up. “I never thanked you the first time.”

“It’s no trouble, my lady,” he replies, but she’s already slipping out the door.

* * *

**ii. Aceso**

A thorn is to blame.

The monastery greenhouse has been neglected. Food for the stationed troops is grown in the larger kitchen gardens instead, with more stores shipped northward from the Empire once a month. Bernadetta has worked to maintain a small section of medicinal plants, but the rest—the exotic species, the rare blooms, the seeds the Archbishop grew just for something pretty to decorate the altars—have been left to grow wild. A silent drama of survival plays out between the shady leaves, flower pitted against weed.

It has become their preferred spot to discuss private business. Unlike Edelgard’s office, there’s much less risk of being interrupted, and sound doesn’t carry here like it does in the caverns of Garreg Mach’s empty chapels. If the glass walls are covered enough with green, Hubert can sometimes imagine they are away from the monastery, or even away from Fódlan entire. Somewhere the war can’t find them.

“I’m worried about the summer,” Edelgard sighs, running her hand idly through the foliage as they walk. “Predictions say it will be too dry. We’ll have to lower the grain tax to prevent a famine, but raise the land tax to keep funding the war. As though the lords don’t have enough reasons to want my head on a pike already.”

“Dry weather also worsens coughs. Certain kinds of air could damage their sensitive, rich lungs.” At her dark look, he surrenders, hands raised in defeat. “Just offering.”

She deigns to let it go. “At least we have the mountain winds on our side up here. Garreg Mach should keep us cool enough.” A small smile brightens her eyes. “Do you remember going north in the summers, Hubert? To the summer palace near Fort Merceus?”

“I remember the rather long, rather cramped carriage rides, yes.”

“I remember the woods.” Edelgard slows her pace, fingers stroking through the leaves that surround them. “The way the light danced through the trees. I remember laying down on the lawn, looking up at them, and day-dreaming that I could— _ow!”_

She snatches her hand away from the branch she was fiddling with. Hubert has already felt the sharp prick on the base of his thumb.

“Are you alright?”

“Blackberry bush,” she hisses, rubbing at her hand as she glares back at the plant at fault. “A seed must’ve blown in here and sprouted.”

“Or Bernadetta brought it in for the medics.” He holds out his hand. “Let me see.”

“It’s not even bleeding,” she protests.

He levels her with a look. “My lady.”

Rolling her eyes, Edelgard throws her hand on top of his like discarding a used rag. Hubert carefully tugs off her glove before turning her palm over to examine it. The skin is red from the sting, but the thorn didn’t pierce through. He heals it anyway, knowing that something so minor will just be a nuisance to them both.

But when he goes to release her hand, Edelgard suddenly grabs his wrist, forcing his attention.

“Hubert,” she says in a low, dangerous voice, “I know what you’re doing.” The pit falls from his stomach until she adds, “You’re going overboard with worry about my bumps and bruises. You've been coddling me ever since I broke my leg.”

He tries to keep his expression wry, unconcerned. “In case Your Majesty forgot, I am your professional coddler. Paid an annual salary for it.”

“And in case _you_ forgot, I am a grown woman. I can take a few falls,” she insists. "I don’t mind you treating my clumsy accidents, but I know you, and I know you’ll only get worse unless I butt in. I’m not going to bleed out if you arrive too late to heal my papercuts.”

“So now you _don’t_ want me to heal your papercuts?”

“Hubert, enough.” She releases him with a stern frown. “We’re at war. You’re my minister, not my nurse. Stop fretting like one.”

She tugs her glove out of his hand and continues down the path, her skirt stirring the leaves as she brushes past. Hubert exhales. His fear of being caught and his guilt over his relief at escaping mix in a murky stew.

That’s the reason, he figures later, it took him so long to notice the spot of blood that stained his glove, right where Edelgard should have been pricked.

* * *

He can’t figure out where he made the mistake. The formula? The sigil? Did casting it again before the effects fully wore off create some kind of combined impact? Did casting it on the same subject so often make the connection too strong?

Whatever the cause, Hubert feels the effects. _Sees_ the effects: the dark bruises that are only red scrapes on Edelgard’s skin; the cuts that cannot pierce her but open easily enough on him. He has to fake a sudden cold and work from his room when she’s struck in the eye one battle, because his is the one that swells up. Not that she compares all their injuries side-by-side, but what are the odds of two people taking the same hit within the same hour? His lady is not a fool.

The dreaded dry summer comes. They have been at war over two years, and despite the grumbling from Enbarr, prospects look good. The northern border of the Empire expands, field by field, plot by plot. If their good fortune continues, if Thales and his ilk uphold their bargain, maybe it won’t last beyond three. This is the fervent, childish hope Hubert clings to every time he limps across a battlefield to make sure Edelgard’s twisted ankle is mended. This is what bolsters his resolve to grit his teeth and work through the nights she sleeps.

This is what gets him to keep leaving his bed to let her in when she knocks, even though all the signs warn him he shouldn’t.

She doesn’t always ask for the siphoning spell. Sometimes she downs a cup of tea and leaves as quietly as she arrived. Sometimes she tries to make stilted conversation, a preamble. Hubert wishes there were a way to ask more pointedly what the spell feels like to her—what exactly she keeps returning for. Surely there must be _something_ she’s returning for.

One hot, still night under a moonless Blue Sea sky, she puts her hands over his on her shoulders again. Steps back and leans against his chest.

“I have a dream sometimes,” she whispers. “It will start like an ordinary day, with the usual tasks, the usual people. But then halfway through, someone tells me, ‘Wait—this is wrong. You’re not supposed to be here.’ And I realize they mean that I didn’t die when I was supposed to. I avoided my true fate: to rot away in that dungeon with my family, and now I must turn myself in and accept the consequences.

“It’s disorienting. It keeps striking me during the day— _you’re not supposed to be here._ What if it’s an omen? What if I have ten years of predestined debt hanging over my head?”

“No,” Hubert says firmly. “Death doesn’t operate on some master schedule you can shirk. You are alive, and you’re meant to be so.”

He can feel her exhale, her chest moving against his. “You sound so sure of it.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“I know you too well.” Slowly, he allows his hands to smooth down her arms, feeling the tension ebb out of her and therefore out of him. “Answer fate when it calls? You’d never be so compliant.”

It gets a quiet laugh out of her. For a long moment they stand like that—too close to be meaningless, but too caged for a real embrace.

When she finally goes, Hubert falls back into a fitful sleep. He dreams of walking behind Edelgard as her body cracks, chipping away like stone, and he is frantic to pick up the pieces.

* * *

Exactly as Edelgard predicted, the nobles don’t appreciate that their harvest coffers are depleted of coin in favor of the commoners’ being stocked with grain. Hubert does his best to withstand her headaches, but maybe most of them were his to begin with. His temples always start to throb the second he spies Council seals on the mail.

If he allows himself one selfish indulgence, it’s to blame the bureaucracy for distracting him enough to allow the robbery.

Bandits rule the Oghma Mountains, their reign stretching longer than any king’s in Fódlan. Despite the ongoing war, despite the presence of soldiers, they still plague the lonely roads and circle the distant towns. Hubert is sure that even if the Immaculate One came and leveled the hills flat, some of them would still survive; roaches armed with swords and clubs.

He is aware of the dangers of traveling too close to dusk. But he’s exhausted, returning from a fortnight in the south of being shouted at by ministers twice his age and half as respectful. His small traveling party and finer cloak mark him as a noble in a hurry, which in retrospect was like dangling a steak before a drooling dog. And yet, when the highwaymen emerge from the trees, blocking the road, he is still caught by surprise.

“You’re obstructing imperial business,” Hubert warns them, his horse’s ears flattening as magic sparks in his hands. “The punishment is ten years for laying hands on an official, thirty if they suffer injuries. Unless all of you know a very talented barrister, I recommend letting us pass.”

The largest one—the ringleader, he’d guess—grunts, “Knock out the others. But him, you can break his arms.”

Hubert sighs. “Alright. Thirty it is.” And spurs his horse.

Battles, no matter the size, are always determined by numbers. Hubert’s guards are good soldiers, but they can’t take more than two enemies each. That leaves him six at best, eight at worst. He decides to work in pairs. Two consumed quickly by dark fire. One axe dodged, another dagger parried, both knocked together and set upon with mire. Another two pelted with dark spikes until they slump over, belching blood. He leaps from his horse to assist one of his guards, driving a fallen sword into an exposed back.

He’s about to assist the other when he’s struck in the side.

The arm-breaking leader stands over him, mace hefted over his head for the next strike. Hubert rolls out of the way a second before it hits the dirt, the vibration rattling through him. His chest is on fire, his vision spotted. He tries to concentrate on miasma, but it’s difficult to dodge the quick blows of the mace and summon magic at the same time. He takes another kick to the ribs that steals the air from his lungs.

Numbers. Hubert takes advantage of the short moment that the ringleader relishes in his wheezing to do a calculation. Then he hooks his leg around the bandit’s knee and pulls him down.

Right onto his dagger.

When he opens his eyes, he’s lying on a cot, and the air stinks of blood.

“Wait! Stop!”

A hand presses him back down before he can sit up, but the damage is done. Hubert groans from the stabbing pain that shoots across his torso. Every breath hurts. He lifts his head enough to look down and finds he’s been stripped to the waist. The bruises from the mace and the ringleader’s boot have turned a hideous but even plum shade; someone’s already started repairs.

Dropping his head back to the pillow, he feels clumsily for the hand on his collarbone, then connects it to an arm. His eyes follow along and finally find Edelgard’s face above.

“Two broken ribs.” Her expression is anxious. She moves her hand to his shoulder but doesn’t take it away. “One they’ve already healed, but the other is more complex, and right now priority has to be given to Lieutenant Rusak.”

A strangled cry sounds from behind her. Hubert lifts his head again and finds Rusak—the guard he couldn’t reach in time—on the next cot, surrounded by medics. A doctor removes her bloodied hands so a healer can move in, white magic illuminating the Lieutenant’s sliced thigh.

Hubert closes his eyes again. The difficulty of breathing now feels more like a lucky break.

“Captain Konig?” he croaks.

“Bruised, but well. She finished off the last of them and rode back for help. You may owe her your life.”

“Then I owe her a promotion too.” He realizes he’s still holding onto Edelgard’s wrist, and tries to concentrate on releasing it. But she misinterprets; instead of letting go, she takes his hand in both of hers instead, bringing his arm to rest at his side. “My lady, I thank you for watching over me, but it is not necessary for you to keep—”

“It certainly is, because I made a fool of myself getting here.” She gives him a smile that isn’t strong enough to cover her worry. “It was dark, and I wasn’t paying attention. I tripped down the stairs right in front of the nurse. They almost made me lie in the cot beside you.” She takes one hand away briefly to pat her knee. “I’m sure I’ll be black and blue come morning.”

It’s hard to feel anything beyond his chest, but sure enough, Hubert’s knee is sore.

“Do you need anything?” She punctuates the question with the brush of her thumb over his knuckles. “I could fetch you water?”

“I’d rather you stay.”

It escapes from his mouth before he can stop it. His head swims, his tongue heavy with the burden of what he’s asked. Rusak moans again, and Edelgard must hear—it’s impossible _not_ to hear in here. She must smell the blood too.

He mumbles, “But you shouldn’t feel obligated. I know that it can be…” he struggles to find a word that can sum up her history without trivializing it, “…unpleasant for you. Places like this.”

Edelgard shakes her head. “I’ll manage,” she says. “I'll stay.”

Hubert tries to protest again, but Rusak cries out, the medics’ voices rising to give instructions over the noise. Edelgard shifts in her chair, edging closer to his cot, her eyes fixed resolutely on his face.

“My lady, really—” he tries again.

“Hubert, for pity’s sake!” she snaps. “If you make one more disparaging remark I’ll pick you up and drop you back in the road where we found you!”

And so she stays.

By the time the medics seal Rusak’s skin back together and are ready to see him again, Hubert has gotten more control over himself. He’s had a lot of practice, after all, managing pain. When they’ve finished repairing his other rib, he’s still slightly dazed from the magic. Edelgard’s hand is a warm anchor on his cheek.

“You are on mandatory leave,” she orders. “I don’t want to see you lift a single finger until you’re fully healed.”

His throat tightens with panic. The siphoning spell is due to run out soon. If she won’t let him work, then she won’t let him cast it.

“No, don’t bother negotiating,” she cuts in before he can even open his mouth. “I’ll post guards at your door if I must. And now I _will_ fetch you water and you _will_ drink some, because you look pale as death.”

He has no choice but to watch her walk away, his bruised knee twinging with every step she takes.

* * *

“Edelgard said you invented a spell.”

Hubert looks up from his desk to find Linhardt across from it. He buries his flash of frustration: yet again, he’s failed to notice someone enter the room. Weeks have passed since the end of his leave, but Edelgard still won’t visit him, won’t ask to be healed. His body has adjusted reluctantly without the spell, unused to being one person again. His senses seem duller, his head often foggy.

“Only edited one,” he replies, crossing through another expense line. “I keep the sorcery engineers around for a reason. I don’t have time to experiment myself.”

“Well, I’m all ears.” Linhardt manages to fit himself in the spare chair with a truly impressive tangle of legs, like a cat claiming an empty basket. “Her descriptions were basically useless—you know how fighters talk about magic—but I have some guesses. Is it blood-based?”

“No.”

“Hm. Lymphatic?” When he gets no answer, he tries, “Nervous?”

Hubert bites at the tip of his tongue. He can’t lie. If he lies, he’ll be caught.

“It’s a variant of Nosferatu,” he says with indifference, as though this is a conversation about tomorrow’s weather. “What were your guesses?”

Linhardt scratches his chin. “Interesting. From what she told me, I thought you were slowing her heart rate. My guess was that you were putting her body into a more relaxed state and then letting the natural processes take over.”

Hubert pays very close attention to his pen as he dips it in the inkwell, making sure not to spill a drop. “An interesting theory.”

“You really won’t tell me?”

“I didn’t design the spell for you.”

Linhardt snorts. “Clearly not. But I’m here because your patient asked me to replicate it.”

Hubert puts his pen to the page, but doesn’t write. Ink bleeds through the paper like a black drop of blood. Finally, he gets his mouth to work again.

“Why?”

“Ask _her_ why. I don’t have that much time to experiment either. I just told her I’d ask you for the sigil composition and gave her a sleeping draught for the meantime.” Linhardt untangles himself from the chair to stand up. “So if you’re going to be so cagey, I’ll just wave some light over her and tell her it’ll only work if she goes to bed at an acceptable time for humans, not bats.”

Hubert manages to curb his glare and reply calmly, “That might be just as effective. Mine isn’t a sleeping spell. I’ve told her that many times.”

“Then tell her again.” As always, Linhardt doesn’t remember to close the door behind him as he leaves—or maybe he never closes it on purpose. “Because I’m obviously not the placebo she’s looking for.”

Hubert tries, but the letter refuses to be written for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

Autumn, the outskirts of Magdred County. Frost, but not yet cold enough to freeze over the earth. Mud coats his legs to the knee. Hubert’s hands are still shaking from casting spell after spell, his head buzzing with the remnants of dark energy. This time they didn’t claim any new land, but the border remains intact, and that’s a win in itself, isn’t it? The Faersh are starting to push harder. They know that the coming winter will give them an advantage, that it will freeze the border and the Empire’s progress as it has every year thus far.

No matter. Hubert returns to routine.

“Has Her Majesty returned?”

The other generals look at him and then aside. It’s Bernadetta who finally speaks up, voice shaking, her soft face still flecked with someone else’s blood.

“P-Petra found her, Hubert,” she says, “and she thinks that because of her Crests, she didn’t notice for a while that she’d been hurt—”

He leaves without looking back.

There’s not enough room in the medics’ tent. The cots have spilled outside; the most hopeless cases are laid on the bare ground, only distinguished from the dead by the way their chests move with shallow breaths. There’s not enough spare cloth to give Edelgard any privacy this time. She’s easy to spot thanks to her red uniform, but even if she wore brown and blended with the mud Hubert could still find her. He would know her cries from miles away.

He shoves people aside to get through the crowd of medics and reach her cot. Immediately, he understands what Petra discovered.

A doctor and a healer are frantically working over Edelgard’s open gut, ruby red organs just visible beneath their hands. The edges of the wound are crusted with clotted blood, as is her torn dress. All signs of an enemy’s blade that ran straight through her in battle. It must have been a blow that her Crests made her too powerful to feel, so she ignored the pain and kept going. She ignored it until her body could not.

“My lady,” he gasps, finding her hand and squeezing it. But though she turns her head to face him, it seems like she doesn’t understand the words. Her eyes are wild, more white than violet, darting back and forth like a caged animal’s.

“She’s in a state of shock.” Marianne doesn’t looks up from her work, her magic shining so brightly that this whole corner is as light as day. Some hair has escaped from her braids and fallen over her face, but her concentration is ironclad. “If you could calm her down, that might help. Her heart rate is making the bleeding worse.”

Edelgard makes another little cry, her hand twitching in his.

“Hubert,” she whimpers. A glistening tear escapes from the corner of her eye. “I don’t want to be opened up. Tell them to stop opening me up.”

Immediately he turns her head towards him, leaning over her to further block the view.

“No, no, my lady, it’s nothing like that,” he hushes, squeezing her hand firmly. “You know these people. They’re our friends, helping you. They’ll be done soon.”

“Don’t want to be opened up,” she repeats, shaking her head until he presses her cheek down, making her look at only him. “Hubert, don't leave, you can’t leave me. Bad things always happen. The last time they opened me up they wouldn’t let me see you, and it hurt—”

“That will never happen again,” he vows. “I’ll stay right here, the whole time.”

She tries to speak again, but then a doctor reaches past Marianne’s hands to probe Edelgard’s insides. Hubert’s ears ring from the scream.

“Why isn’t she sedated?” he snaps.

“We tried.” Marianne’s voice is trembling, but she keeps casting. “Her Crests are still in some kind of defense state. She powered through everything we gave her.”

Edelgard whimpers something, but he can’t make out the words. More tears leak through her lashes, drip down her dirtied cheeks. He can’t help but feel furious at the lack of privacy; she’s always hated when people see her cry. A nurse wipes the sweat from Marianne’s forehead. After another scream, a doctor grabs Edelgard’s ankles so that she can’t kick. Her hand is gripping his so hard that he can feel his pulse throb in his fingers.

This time, he doesn’t wait for her permission.

“Breathe in, please, my lady,” he murmurs in her ear so that the others won’t overhear. He places his hand over Edelgard’s chest, familiar enough now to know where the right spot is. The pulse of Faith magic flows through his veins, ready to be cast, as Edelgard takes in a shaky, shallow breath. “That’s it. Now breathe out, and…”

Had Hubert not cast this so many times before, had he not braced himself by gripping the edge of the cot just before the white magic poured out of her body and into his, he’s sure the pain would’ve knocked him flat.

It feels as though a phantom sword has plunged into him. Hubert catches himself with one knee on the ground, his vision swimming. Marianne’s eyes flick over to him with confusion for a moment, but she returns to her work without a word, not willing to expend her concentration. Someone puts a hand on his shoulder and suggests that perhaps Lord Vestra should rest—it is perfectly normal for this scene to make even seasoned generals sick. Hubert can only answer with a glare, because he can hardly breathe when another pair of hands touch Edelgard’s wound again. To call it ‘excruciating’ would be too kind. He can’t fathom how she hasn’t fainted, because he feels much too close to it.

He brushes off the hand on his shoulder, clenching his jaw tight enough to ache. Edelgard’s breathing is still too shallow, too quick, but she’s closed her eyes. He concentrates on wiping the sweat from her brow. The burn in his stomach—their stomachs—is cooled a little further under each pass of Marianne’s magic, but still he has no strength to stand. He is only comforted that his shirt remains white to prove that he’s not bleeding out too.

 _For the subject to be relieved by half_ —how foolish he was, how selfish. Even half of this is unimaginable. Edelgard’s grip on his hand is still tight enough to bruise, and Hubert can only wish that he had created something that would have saved her from everything.

“Don’t leave,” Edelgard mumbles once more, lashes fluttering against her cheek.

He has only the strength to pull the back of her hand against his lips for a response. For he knows he has not even half her strength. That if he opens his mouth now, he will never stop screaming.

* * *

The first night she’s well enough to get out of bed on her own, she knocks on his door. She refuses the chair and the tea.

When the siphoning spell is complete, she doesn’t hold his hands against her shoulders or lean back. She turns around and hugs him around his waist. The ghost of the wound twinges from the pressure, but Hubert doesn’t hesitate to lift his arms and wrap them around her, pressing a hand against her hair. They breathe in time until their hearts are matched beat for beat.

Hubert tries to forget the wound. Forget the war. Forget the confines of his little room, a schoolboy’s comforts so long outgrown, forget the hallowed ground of the monastery camp that they have watered with too much blood. Forget that there will come a time when he will have to let Edelgard go.

He rests his cheek on top of her head, taking in the scent of her, the warmth of her. She tightens her embrace at the same time, exhaling against his collar. It makes the pain almost— _almost_ —bearable.

* * *

**iii. Epione**

A grave is to blame.

Edelgard gave the order, but Hubert knows Dorothea was the real influence. He heard her making arguments from the other side of the office door: that they shouldn’t wait til spring, but do it now, before winter made the soil too hard to dig. Enough time had passed. The lack of closure ate at them all.

So the former Black Eagles gather around a plot of brown grass under which no body is buried, to erect a headstone for the professor they never found.

Hubert does not often think of the dead. He remembers his father only when it’s impossible not to. His mother has always been only a name and a trunk of faded linens. The Hresvelg children are vivid in the palace portraits but too blurred in his mind. So as his friends take their turns stepping up to the headstone and sharing their memories of Byleth, Hubert feels off-kilter. It’s all so clear, so recent—Byleth blowing on hot tea in the gardens, Byleth rolling her eyes at a snide comment during lecture, Byleth’s calloused hand hauling him back to his feet—that to stand in the cemetery feels like a set-up. Surely any moment their professor will come strolling around the corner, hand loose on the hilt of her sword, and ask what on earth they’re doing here, slacking off.

The mood teeters between somber and light. A dry anecdote from Linhardt, a heartfelt story from Bernadetta. Ferdinand has prepared a speech worthy to send off an Imperial general being buried with a twenty-drum salute. Dorothea sings, eyes wet but voice steady.

Then it is Edelgard’s turn.

For a moment she just stands there, eyes fixed on the name carved in marble. The mountain wind snatches at the edge of her wool cloak, the hem dancing around her feet.

“I don’t know if there are words,” she begins quietly, “to thank the Professor for what they gave me.”

Something odd stings in Hubert’s chest. He frowns as he presses a hand over his heart, trying to determine if it’s a cramp or something more worrisome. Another memory comes to him unbidden: flying lessons, Byleth leaning over him as he sat hunched on the grass, telling him to put his head between his knees. _Never choose bravery over your body, Hubert. I’d rather give you a second study hall than watch you get sick all semester._

“I did not have a…reliable guardian, when I was young.” Edelgard tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, out of her face. “My father was in ill health. I’m not terribly close with my uncle. My tutors and governesses kept a strict distance from a child ranked much higher than themselves. So I admit I was quite suspicious when I first met the Professor. I didn’t understand her motive for taking such a blow for me, the first night she came to the mountains. I didn’t understand what made her choose me over Dimitri or Claude.

“Her kindness didn’t end there—the hours upon hours of teaching us, helping us, leading us on missions. Protecting us. I have never known someone with power over me who did not take advantage of it.” As Edelgard exhales, the knot twists in Hubert’s chest. “I’m not sure I will ever meet another like her.”

The feeling has crawled from his chest up his throat, burning in his mouth and eyes. At his side, Petra turns her head, looking up at him with furrowed brows.

“Something is wrong?” she whispers, putting a careful hand on his elbow. Hubert shakes his head no, but she keeps her hand there as though steadying him. He wants to tell her that the gesture is kind but unnecessary, but his throat is still burning and Edelgard is still speaking.

“What you gave me was trust,” she says, laying one hand on the headstone. “You had faith in me when I had very little in myself. I wish I had trusted you the same, sooner.” Her fingers clench against the marble. “I wish I had been able to save you as you did me.”

“Hubert?” Petra whispers again, but he’s already pulled away.

He pushes past a startled Casper to break from the group, walking out of the cemetery as fast as he can without breaking into a run. He throws open the door of the first building he comes to, winding down halls with no sense of direction, only trying to choose the most secluded path. When at last the pressure in his chest feels fit to burst, he catches himself against a wall, leaning on his back as he sinks to the floor.

Hubert cries harder than he ever has in his life.

It is a body-wracking, all-consuming kind of weeping. He has to press his palm against his mouth to muffle the sobs that spill from his throat. Hot tears trail down his cheeks faster than he can wipe them away, itching his neck as they dry against his skin. He cries until his head aches, until his nose is red and raw. He cries and cries and he does not know _why,_ cannot fathom how such a small act of delayed mourning has flayed him open like this. His Professor’s death is far from the worst thing that has ever befallen him.

He’s left with the weight of his shame over this strange breach of composure once he finally gets the tears to stop. Each step on the walk back to the cemetery feels as difficult as fording through mud. But when he returns to the grave, only Edelgard remains.

“I saw you walk away,” she says with concern, hurrying over to him. “What happened? Petra said you looked terribly ill.”

“I was. It’s passed now.” Though he tries clearing his throat, his voice is still too thick. Telling. “I apologize for being so rude, Your Majesty. I hope I didn’t ruin the ceremony for everyone else.”

“Of course not,” Edelgard chides. “I only worried that you wouldn’t get to say your piece, if you still wanted to.” She glances at the grave behind her. “I can give you some distance.”

Hubert reads the name again, the date of death. He is older than his professor was at the age she was taken from them. He realizes that now he always will be.

“I said my own goodbye already.”

He offers his arm. Edelgard takes it.

After a few minutes of silence, she squeezes his elbow as they walk, prompting him to look down at her.

“You don’t have to pretend, Hubert,” she says softly. “Not in front of me.”

He gives a low grunt in response. The shame churns in his stomach.

“I know how you feel.” Her smile is close-lipped and thin. “I’ve been close to crying about it myself, many times. But today it didn’t sting as badly. It will be the same for you, in time.”

Hubert wants with all his heart to change the subject to anything else. But the wheels turn in his brain.

He asks her, “Do you feel that way often? Close to tears? A pressure in your chest?”

Edelgard looks confused, but nods. “That is—well, I’m used to it. The grief.” She squeezes his arm again in reassurance. “It has been with me all my life. So this…” She sighs. “I think I was more prepared for this day than most.” Another smile up at him, still so thin and sad. “More prepared than you, perhaps.”

He has no answer to that.

As they walk, Edelgard rests her other hand on his elbow too, a sturdy warmth at his side in the face of the mountain wind. Edelgard, who doesn’t know their arms are not the only parts of them entwined.

* * *

Faerghus and the Church hold their frozen ground through winter. The Alliance continues to play blind and mute. A third year of war dawns.

It seems the long break between siphoning spells fixed the physical effect, but as this new complication develops, Hubert almost longs to bleed for Edelgard again. His lady’s emotions are as smooth as a still lake on the surface, but carry fast, crushing currents beneath. Her anger makes Hubert want to throw things. Her impatience makes him want to claw at his skin. Her sadness is plainly unbearable, powerful enough to make even getting out of bed feel like an impossible, worthless task.

Hubert tries his best to divorce her feelings from his own to better ignore them, lest people start to suspect that the Chief Strategian is becoming erratic. But even without magic at the root, he can’t imagine being able to stop paying close attention to her moods. He witnessed Edelgard throw some impressive tantrums as a toddler; now he knows that she never outgrew the depth of her fury, only stopped kicking and screaming about it.

The war stalls. They infect one another. She's thrown from her horse when they charge Alliance mercenaries up a rugged mountain road at the Airmid border. Hubert bites his tongue until he tastes blood as they reset her dislodged shoulder. The mutual frustration creates what may be the longest, worst argument they’ve ever had: she accuses him of treating her like an errant child; he fires back that she acts like a zealot longing for martyrdom. They hardly speak again for a week, putting the entire camp on edge.

In the Harpstring Moon they lose General Schneider at the Battle of White Gull Bay. Her widow comes to Garreg Mach to collect the shroud. She sinks to her knees in front of the Emperor, clutching at her skirts as she wails, her young son watching wide-eyed in the arms of his nurse. When the audience has ended, Hubert takes the risk of moving close enough to clasp Edelgard’s hand for a moment, because he’s sure that if he doesn’t, both their hearts will break.

It’s beyond the point that he knows he should stop. Yet Edelgard keeps coming to him—not in a regular pattern, but more often than before—and keeps asking to be healed. How can he refuse? If he must find secluded places to weep, if he breaks his hands and feet, if he is rent apart to keep her whole, it would still not be enough to help her. His useless spell is a placebo after all.

It was inevitable that they would lose battles someday. But throughout spring, Edelgard gnaws her lip every time they have to redraw the map, and Hubert feels her teeth sink into his skin. Not three years, then. He won’t delude himself into hoping for four.

* * *

They decide to throw a small celebration in honor of the Garland Moon. The soldiers are in need of it, Edelgard says, just a few days’ rest to boost morale. A few days of normalcy. Hubert signs the order for several wagons of white roses to be delivered to the monastery and keeps his complaints about the expense to himself.

But against his expectations, he finds himself enjoying it as much as the rest of them. Lysithea, face flushed redder than a cherry, is crowned the Rose Queen and paraded around the grounds on the shoulders of a dozen cheering mages. Bernadetta has sculpted a magnificent eagle entirely out of blooms. Caspar and Sylvain are crowing drinking songs loud enough to be heard a good way from the dining hall, accompanied by a laughing crowd stomping their feet and clapping in time.

As dusk falls, Hubert finds himself sitting on the dock to watch Edelgard, Dorothea, and Petra play a rapid round of cards. He suspects Petra is playing more naïve at the game than she actually is, by the number of hands she’s winning—but it could be that Dorothea is also too tipsy to be very good. Edelgard keeps giggling whenever the two of them bicker over a point, as the rules seem more and more made-up as the game goes on.

The dying sunlight has washed Edelgard in deep gold, splayed her long shadow dark against the planks. Even down by the water, the air still smells of roses, the scent as thick as the taste of wine on his tongue. She’s playing bare-handed in order to draw faster, and Hubert finds he can’t stop looking at the sharp joints of her wrists as her hands dart forward to pluck a new card from the deck. He’s studying them so thoroughly, in fact, that he doesn’t notice Edelgard turned to look at him too.

Their eyes meet for just a moment. A glance, a smile, and she returns to the game. But her fingers fumble when she reaches for the deck again. And Hubert feels something.

Warmth—it builds up suddenly, like the spark of a match. His heartbeat quickens, his mouth curiously dry. His frowns down at his long-empty cup, but this doesn’t feel like intoxication. He waits for something else to follow—dizziness? nausea?—but just the warm feeling remains.

He’s startled when Dorothea squawks with indignation as Petra wins yet again. When he looks back at the group, Edelgard turns her head away quickly. His heart starts pounding again as he watches her, but she doesn’t meet his eyes. _Won’t_ meet his eyes, he realizes. So is the warmth hers, and the racing pulse? What’s going on?

“That’s it! I am taking this—” Dorothea stands up, plucking the crown of roses from her hair, “—and giving it to the richest man on this mountain. And then, Petra Macneary, I will waste his coffers to have my revenge upon you.” She turns with a flourish, marching dramatically up the dock.

“Be careful, for I may be giving him mine first!” Petra calls, and then she’s on her feet and running. Dorothea swears at top volume as she picks up her skirts, trying to catch up as the two tear down the path back to the grounds.

Edelgard sighs. “And here all I get on the Garland Moon is a pack of cards.”

“That’s not even true.” Hubert helps her collect them. “You could start a flower stall with all the roses delivered to your office. It’s going to stink in there for weeks.”

Edelgard huffs as she stands, tucking the deck into her skirt pocket. “Those were all courtesy gifts and you know it. The nobles tried to outdo each other—did you see the size of the one from the Count von Rabenak? Those are all gestures of groveling, not wooing.”

“Oh, woe be unto you,” he can’t resist teasing. “How terrible that the Emperor of Adrestia didn’t receive enough tokens from beautiful women this year.”

Only his reflexes save Hubert from being shoved off the dock.

The sun has dipped even lower as they walk back through the grounds. Spring nights in the mountains are still cold; that must be the reason he and Edelgard walk close enough that their arms keep brushing. That inner warmth is banked now, but something about her still feels off. He keeps his eyes on the path ahead to make sure they don’t trip in the dim light, but he can feel her watching only him.

They’ve just reached the lawn outside the old classrooms when she asks, “Did _you_ get anything today?”

“The same garland that Bernadetta gave all of us.”

“Nothing from anyone else?”

“No, and I don’t want to be saddled with the monstrosity from the Count von Rabenak, so don’t try ‘gifting’ it to me.”

“I wasn’t going to!” She sounds defensive. “It was just a question.”

They keep walking. Hubert would’ve thought the conversation over, but there's still such a strange feeling radiating from her. He’s about to risk prodding about it when she finally speaks again.

“If someone did give you a garland,” Edelgard says slowly, her gaze fixed firmly on her shoes, “would you have accepted?”

Hubert considers it. He’s been fortunate that in his life, the very few advances made toward him have all been easily rebuffed. But a rose garland presented on a holiday for lovers isn’t as simple as an invitation to tea. There’s no way he can construct an imaginary scene that wouldn’t end in unbearable awkwardness.

He sighs, banishing thoughts of crying admirers and shredded petals. “It would depend entirely on the person giving.”

She doesn’t reply to that. After another few steps, Hubert comes to a halt, forcing Edelgard to stop with him.

“My lady,” he says, now frustrated, “whatever advice or opinion you’re really trying to pry out of me, I wish you would just speak it plainly. I can’t help you with only hypotheticals.”

Edelgard looks at him for only a moment before returning her concentration to her shoes.

“That’s easier said than done,” she mutters. Her heartbeat is picking up speed.

“There’s nothing to fear.” Hubert puts a hand on her shoulder. “How long have I served you? Nothing you could say could scare me away.”

Far from comforting her, this seems to give Edelgard more anxiety. Hubert curses himself as he feels his palms go clammy beneath his gloves like hers. Still, he waits as she swallows and reaches into her pocket, pulling out the cards. She shuffles through the deck carefully before she finds the one she’s searching for. She hands it to him wordlessly, the face side flipped down.

Puzzled, Hubert turns it over.

Two of Roses, stems entwined.

“Every time I thought of making a real garland, I just felt absurd.” Edelgard attempts—but doesn’t accomplish—a smile. “Frankly this doesn’t feel much better.”

His palms are clammier than ever, but he can’t tell who’s to blame for it anymore.

“I…” he starts, unable to decide whether he should look at the card or at her. “You…you mean that you…”

“Yes.” Another try at a smile yields a little more success. “For some time now.”

For some time now. Her nervousness. Her glances. Her touches. The way she lingered on them, the way she asked for more. Edelgard wasn’t seeking brief moments of comfort, but seeking _him._

“Hubert, you said nothing would scare you away, but your resounding silence says otherwise.” Edelgard wrings her hands slowly, trying to play it off. “I didn’t think I read the signs wrong. Unless—”

“You didn’t.” Oh, and how easy, how blissful it is to tell her, “I’ve loved you too, for some time now.”

The light is red and fading, but it’s as though a sun has burst inside him, bright and blazing, too many emotions erupting at once. Surprise—elation—love, _love_ , that’s what it was, he was feeling her love, could not discern it because his own is so familiar that he was used to it. How could he have grown used to it? Edelgard is red from the dusk, red from her blush, and she laughs because she seems she doesn’t know how else to reply.

“And I-I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with a garland in the first place,” he chuckles nervously, glancing back down at the card in his hand. “I’m not forgetting some holiday script, am I?”

She shakes her head, still giggling. “I think you’re just supposed to wear it.”

A playing card is not a garland, so he can’t easily toss it around his neck. But after some consideration, Hubert finds a solution. He tucks the Two of Roses into his coat’s inner pocket, where it may sit against his heart.

* * *

Maybe he slept through the knock. Maybe she never knocked at all. Regardless, Hubert awakens to a calloused palm cupping his cheek. He opens his eyes to see the moonlight has fallen against Edelgard’s hair, illuminating the feathery little pieces that curl at her temples. Her dressing gown is wrapped tightly over her front. She’s not wearing anything beneath.

It takes him a moment to realize how he could know that—to remember the explanation for why he can feel warm and comfortable beneath his sheets, and yet also feel cool silk brushing against not-his bare chest. Edelgard runs her thumb over his cheekbone and his cock twitches in response. He’s half-hard already. And it must be because…because she feels…

He forces himself to shift, her hand falling away from his cheek as he rises from the pillow to sit up. Hoarsely, he asks, “Trouble sleeping, my lady?”

“Yes,” she answers.

Her dressing gown pools on the floor.

Edelgard sighs into his mouth when they kiss, as though it’s a relief to finally do so, as though she’s been aching for it. Hubert is almost dizzy when she presses her tongue to his, when she nips lightly at his lower lip, a rush shooting through him with every touch. He cups the back of her head to kiss her deeper in turn, unsure whose scalp is tingling. Unsure who aches for this more.

Some of her scars he can tell apart, rippled and raised above her skin, and some of them he cannot. Her shoulders are solid, her breasts soft. Drawing his thumbs over her nipples makes her bite his lip again, harder, and brings an echo of warmth to his own chest. The warmth only grows as she slips off his nightshirt and touches him herself.

Hubert feels like he is drowning. So much sensation lapping across his skin, so much air stolen from his lungs.

“What can I do for you,” he manages to gasp, burying his face in her neck, trying not to slip under. Edelgard shakes her head, her arms trailing down his back.

“You always do things for me,” she murmurs. “I hate it sometimes. I take advantage of you.”

“Anything you could take from me is yours already. Has always been.”

Her hands tighten, nails pricking his skin. “It’s parasitic.”

But she allows him to move her, laying her down against the mattress where the sheets are still warm where he slept. He draws languid kisses along her jaw until she closes her eyes. He tries to smooth the nervous crease from her brow, to siphon her guilt from her too.

“If you won’t tell me,” he warns, smiling as he traces the sides of her body from her ribs to the curve of her hips, “I’ll have to figure it out.”

It takes a moment, but finally, pink-cheeked, she nods.

Hubert has most of it figured out already. There’s a dulled throbbing feeling between his thighs; it doesn’t feel like it wholly belongs to his cock, but it certainly affects it. As he kisses down her body, sliding between her legs, he pays close attention to the hitch in Edelgard’s breath, the clench of her fingers in his hair. He’s fully hard by the time he ghosts his mouth over the patch of hair above her sex. Both their hips jerk when his lips make contact with her hot, slick skin.

Did he really think the beginning was like drowning? _This_ is like drowning—chasing the pulse that runs through him as he tastes her, licking along her entrance until she’s almost shaking, both of them struggling to breathe. Hubert can feel when her muscles jump with surprise, when they tense with impatience. He grinds his hips into the mattress in tandem with hers moving against his tongue.

Because of the spell, he knows to put more attention on her clit a split-second before she croaks, “Please, up higher,” and knows to stay there even as she pulls his hair hard enough to hurt. He knows the tight, burning feeling that pulls at her core as she gets closer, closer. He knows when she wants him to seal his mouth to her skin and suck because he can think of nothing else, he doesn’t know whose body is whose anymore, their aches and their wants and their bliss all tangled together. Hubert muffles his sounds against her cunt when she comes apart, all of him trembling with her.

It is only when he slumps down against the mattress that he can feel his own erection, still intact. Reminding him that he only _felt_ an orgasm, not had one.

“You’re laughing,” Edelgard pants. He rests his chin on her belly to look up at her. Nothing on earth could ever be so beautiful as her hazy eyes, her exhausted smile. “Dare I ask what you found so funny down there?”

“It’s not clever.”

“Hubert.”

He scrapes his teeth just under her navel. “That you’d call yourself a parasite, but I’m the one feasting on flesh.”

She pulls up her legs, trying to shove him off, declaring she is going back to her own room immediately, thank you, goodnight, and Hubert can only laugh harder as he pins her down, kisses her pout back into a grin. When she takes hold of his cock, their shared arousal flares again, the waters of where her body ends and his begins muddied more than ever.

This is something he is willing to take from her freely: a moment to forget they were ever apart.

* * *

**iv. Iaso**

A threat is to blame.

The King of Faerghus has, by large, stayed away from the battlefield. It’s a choice Hubert strongly suspects was made by his advisors, not Dimitri himself. Faerghus has already suffered through one succession crisis and a stunted regency; to lose another king now would mean to lose the war. With their strongest fighter corralled behind the walls of Fort Loog within Fhirdiad, their army may suffer, but their nation remains intact.

But three years is a long time for any war-loving man to be kept from his destiny. Intelligence reports that Dimitri has at last been given a longer leash, and is moving to join the troops marching south from the city. Hubert doesn’t need spies to tell him that they plan on making a major charge before autumn ends—to put a large dent in the map that the Empire won’t be able to reclaim when this coming winter yet again halts all progress.

“I will be at the front,” Edelgard insists. “No one else will be able to match him.”

“Which is exactly what the Archbishop wants,” Hubert argues back. “Why do you think she’s finally letting him loose? She’s trying to bait you out, and you’re playing right into her hands.”

“Who do you want to send in my place, then? Whose heads do you want Dimitri to cleave from their necks?” She slams her palm on the table, rattling the markers. “Name them, Hubert! Tell me which battalion I should send to their deaths!”

They let each fight simmer down and still agree on nothing. Summer blazes through as the Faersh move steadily southward. Unlike changing out an uncomfortable chair, Hubert has little power to fix how thin Edelgard’s cheeks have become, how dark the skin grows beneath her eyes. He can’t stop thinking of the study that proved the soldiers most vulnerable to illness were scouts, who patrolled the longest hours under the most stressful conditions. He instructs the cook to increase the Emperor’s portions, little by little, so that she won’t notice she's served more than the others’ rations. He fears that if she ever finds out, she’ll eat only half of any plate put in front of her.

“You should eat the other half yourself,” Ferdinand scolds when he catches Hubert returning from the kitchens. “Any time you’re late to a meeting, I fear you’ll arrive by ghosting through the door.”

Finally, there is news of a camp being made. The Faersh will make their stand on the edge of the newly-Adrestian Gaspard County.

Edelgard moves the tiny marker capped with the double-headed eagle to the very front of the planned formation. Across the table, she gives him a fierce, plain glare.

* * *

The night before they begin the march north, Hubert reviews his spell, desperate for a solution. But he’s only able to finish a few edits before the knock comes. He hurries to shove his notes back into the mess atop his desk before he admits Edelgard inside.

She’s in a quiet, unhurried mood as she kisses him, walking him carefully backwards to the bed. Hubert can feel her slight headache budding from lack of sleep. He caresses her thighs, whispering an offer against her mouth, but she refuses with a silent shake of her head.

“What did I say?” she sighs as she slips a hand down his chest, feeling him shiver as it travels further still. “You always do things for me.”

It’s not the first time she’s taken him in her mouth, but he finds this night just as overwhelming. Hubert is left panting in the aftermath, sweat cooling on his skin, unable to do much but watch Edelgard fix her tangled hair back into a plait, methodically smoothing each strand between her fingers. When she catches him staring, she smirks. His own jaw may feel hers ache, but if she’s pleased in spite of it, so is he.

She’s calm. At peace. By morning, he won’t have another chance.

“May I ask a favor of you, my lady?” She hums a yes. “Let me use Faith magic on you again. An adaptation of my prior adaptation.”

“Still no name for it?” Finishing her hair, Edelgard brushes it over her shoulder. “What problem did you plan to solve this time?”

“Fear,” he answers. “If done right, it will lessen its grip on you.”

Her face hardens. “I am not afraid of Dimitri.”

“No,” Hubert agrees. He sits up, reaching over to cup her too-sharp cheek in his palm. “But I think you’re afraid of failing us. And it’s eaten away at you enough.”

After a moment, she sighs, turning her head to plant a light kiss on his wrist. “If I say yes, will you stop objecting to me leading the front lines?"

“Out loud, I will. In my head, perhaps not.”

She snorts. “I suppose that’s good enough.”

It’s breathtaking to see the siphoning spell at work on her bare back—to have a glimpse of the strange miracle of the human body, the way its organized chaos forms something so beautiful. The white light leaves Edelgard’s skin, and Hubert exhales as it enters his. Nothing feels too different. He has faith that his careful edit will succeed.

He kisses the back of her neck to let Edelgard know he’s finished, then kisses her there again just because he feels like it. A third time because she giggles. A fourth to hear her do it again.

The next morning, certain that little will be accomplished here until the army returns to the monastery, he leaves his notes in the pile on his desk, where the bottom of the page is marked, _**To siphon all that would bring the subject harm…**_

* * *

At high noon on the battlefield, as the clamor of steel and wood and magic and beasts and bodies screams from every side, from miles around, a frightening thought occurs to Hubert as he cuts down yet another soldier in his way: have they ever really been winning?

What has three years accomplished? Rhea is hundreds of miles to the north, safe and sound within Fhirdiad even as her soldiers cry her name in their death throes. In the territories they’ve won, borderlands like Gaspard full of their flat farmers’ fields, the commoners still speak Faersh and spit to the side when an Imperial soldier rides by. The man with Hubert’s knife sticking out of his eye, writhing on the ground, does he feel like he’s done his king a great service? Does this archer, her arms quickly sliced to ribbons by feasting mire, believe she’s chosen the wrong side?

Hubert collects what soldiers of his battalion still stand and orders them west. The call for retreat is inevitable. He can see two red tabards in the dirt for every blue. He spurs his horse, intending to head towards Ferdinand. Together, they might figure out how they can leave Gaspard County without being chased all the way to the Oghma foothills.

He spots Lysithea thanks to the violet light of her dark magic. She’s outnumbered, doing her best to hold off an ever-closing circle of enemies. An arrow shaft protrudes from her shoulder and blood drips from her mouth. Hubert rallies his mages and together they charge to scatter her attackers, catching them from behind as they run. Hubert hauls her into his saddle with one arm.

“We’re losing,” she gasps, clutching his waist tightly to keep from slipping off as they gallop on.

“I’m aware,” he grunts.

“Edelgard hasn’t sounded the retreat?”

“She’s occupied. Ferdinand is second-in-command; we need to find him and get him to raise the signal.”

It’s easy to know where Edelgard and Dimitri are: the clashing Crests are unmistakable at any distance. Hubert can feel Aymr’s pulse as though it were in his own hands.

“But how do we get her out?” Lysithea demands.

“That’s already taken care of.” Indeed, he’s felt the presence of Thales thicken in the air for the last half-hour, like a chill that runs down the back of your spine when being watched. Once they call for a retreat, a portal is sure to whisk Edelgard away. Another will bring Thales himself to the field camp later, and then they’ll be told off for their loss. As though a whole county is just a child’s misplaced toy. As though it doesn’t please the master of shadows to make Edelgard sting from the humiliation.

Dimitri’s done a bit of damage. Hubert thinks she has a broken finger, definitely many bruised ribs. His shirt is sticking to his arm, so either she’s been pierced there and bleeding or he’s just sweating through his own clothes. In spite of the fall chill, he’s felt too warm all day.

As they race through the battlefield, dodging axes and arrows, he keeps his eyes on Ferdinand’s beacon of red hair, perhaps a hundred yards away. Eighty. Sixty. Closing in, almost close enough to shout—

Pain seizes Hubert’s arm so sharply that he cries out. Out of instinct he pulls it back, yanking the reins without meaning to—his horse shrieks as it rears on its hind legs.

Lysithea screams. For a moment they’re suspended backwards, and then their weight tips too far. Hubert manages to turn himself just enough not to land flat on his back. He hits the ground hard on his shoulder. His vision goes black for a moment as his head knocks against something sharp on the ground.

“Hubert!” Lysithea scrambles over, mud caking half her face, her nose bloody too from the fall. She throws her arms out and catches the rushing Faersh in a wave of dark fire, buying them a little more time. “Your arm!”

Dazed, Hubert looks down. His left arm is bent in a curve. Broken.

_Edelgard’s left arm is broken._

More pain: in his gut now, stronger in his ribs. Dimitri is moving in, pummeling her with blows. Hubert rolls to his knees. The world is still spinning. His head feels like it’s barely attached to his neck, just hanging on in order to keep the rest of him together.

“Ferdinand,” he orders Lysithea. “Leave me so you can get to Ferdinand. Sound the retreat.”

“But Hubert—”

He shoves her back, growling, _“Sound the retreat!”_

Lysithea runs.

The thunder of armored footsteps spurs him to move into a defensive position. Hubert dodges a lance aimed for his heart and drives his own spike through the enemy’s chest. He carves the horse of a Holy Knight in two. It’s hard to see through his dizziness and his sweat. He’s truly pouring with sweat now—his chest feels almost unbearably hot, like a burning coal has been shoved under his skin. But he fights through it. His limp arm knocks against his side whenever he moves, a broken toy soldier rattling in his box.

In the distance, the wail of horns finally sounds the Imperial retreat. There’s a sudden blinding flash—then a guttural scream of rage cuts across the field.

 _Fight through it._ Hubert is burning up when Lieutenant Rusak reaches him with another horse at the ready. He almost bites his tongue hard enough to bleed as he mounts it, his broken bones screaming. He keeps the reins in his good hand and follows her as fast as the beast will go. The Imperial forces are turning back, a red wave gaining momentum.

 _Fight through it._ They fly through the woods, off the battlefield proper. Every landing of the horse’s hooves against the ground sends waves of pain through him, but he’s borne worse. Will have to bear worse. But why is he so hot? The imaginary coal is searing away under his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

Fight through it. Keep fighting and fighting and running and fleeing and it will all be alright if they never win so long as Edelgard lives. If Edelgard lives. Please, Goddess, any damned thing listening, she’s got to live.

The last thing he remembers is seeing Lysithea again, perched now on the back of Ferdinand’s saddle, and the look of horror on her face just before Hubert falls.

* * *

It takes a monumental effort to open his eyes.

Something heavy is sitting on Hubert's chest. It takes him a long moment to realize it’s his own arm, bound in a splint and sling. A short test proves he can still feel his fingers, even though trying to move them results in a shooting pain. The sheets covering his legs are white and pristine; this isn’t the medics’ tent, but Garreg Mach’s hospital.

“He’s awake!”

With concentration, the long blue shape that leans over him transforms into Marianne. Her hand is cool as she carefully checks his eyes and feels the pulse in his neck.

“You woke up once before,” she tells him, pulling back, “but you may not remember. You took quite a hit to the head.”

A second, greener shape joins her. “Ah, the sleeping beauty,” it says in Linhardt’s voice. To Marianne, it notes, “He looks awfully cross-eyed. Is he really conscious?”

Marianne touches Hubert's temple again, and a white light blooms across his vision. When it clears, he levels a look at Linhardt.

“I am,” he rasps.

“If you say so.” Linhardt nods to Marianne. “Then I’m going to fetch Edelgard.”

Marianne balks. “So soon?”

“She specified the second that he was awake.”

“I know, but…it’s going to put stress on him.”

“Yes,” Linhardt sighs, glancing at Hubert once more before turning to the door. “I think that’s the intent.”

Hubert can’t parse the meaning behind that at first. When Edelgard walks through the door, all he can feel is sheer relief. Upright, skin unmarred, whatever injuries she’d taken from Dimitri must be fully-healed.

But after the relief passes, a cold feeling is left in the pit of his stomach. When she looks at him, her face is expressionless. Which for Edelgard, means she’s beyond furious.

She addresses Linhardt and Marianne only: “Is it still in effect?”

Linhardt shrugs. “We suspect so, but there’s only one way to find out.”

“Very well.”

Edelgard wrestles off one of her gloves. It’s when she reaches down and draws her dagger that Hubert finally understands.

She swipes the blade across her palm in a quick motion. It should be enough to break the skin. But as all of them watch with bated breath, her palm remains pink and whole. After a moment, Edelgard sheathes her dagger again. Her eyes are steel.

“Show me your hand, Hubert,” she commands.

Slowly, he turns his palm over. Blood runs between his fingers.

No one says anything as Edelgard turns on her heel and leaves the way she came.

Linhardt rubs at his face and groans. “I really wanted to believe you were smarter than this.”

Hubert’s unable to look away from the red streak on his palm. The distant stirrings of Edelgard’s tumult of emotions are gnawing at him, but if he submits to those now, he’ll be making an even bigger fool of himself.

“You found the notes,” is all he can say.

 _“She_ found the notes, idiot,” Linhardt snaps. “You’re only waking up now because we kept you in a deep sleep the entire march back. Because your body _wouldn’t heal,_ and no one could figure out why. Turns out, we were trying to heal the wrong body.”

“You thought I didn't notice,” Marianne adds quietly, “but I saw you cast it in Magdred County, when she was stabbed. The three of us put the pieces together.”

“And we solved your damned ‘anomalies.’” Linhardt marches across the room, out of Hubert’s field of vision. There’s a metallic clattering sound, and then he returns holding an empty washbasin. “What ‘harm’ did you think you would siphon exactly, when you cast that on someone with an implanted Crest?"

He thrusts the washbasin in front of Hubert’s face, his reflection twisted in the silver. And for the first time, Hubert sees the new, bold streak of white in his hair.

* * *

When he next awakens, Hubert finds himself in his own room, washed with that dull blue cast that heralds the hour before dawn. The clock is ticking somewhere in the shadows. His back aches from having slept in a fixed position in order to not jostle his arm. He takes a slow stock of his surroundings: the untouched stack of mail that’s piled up; the discarded socks crumpled on the floor; the fluttering curtain dancing slowly in the night air.

Edelgard curled in the chair beside his desk.

She’s not asleep, but holding something small and white in her hand, tracing it with a meditative gaze. Hubert realizes it’s a playing card. The Two of Roses he’s kept in his coat pocket since the Garland Moon.

She doesn’t startle when he clears his throat, which means she already knew he was awake.

“You may have it back,” he says. “It wouldn’t be right for me to keep any longer.”

She looks up.

“Is that what you want, Hubert? To give back my love?” Even quiet, there’s still steel in her voice. “Well, I won’t blame you. It’s a common theme of my life. I’ve learned to expect it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then you meant you want some kind of punishment?” She flicks the edge of the card with her thumb. “You want me to scream at you? Or banish you from the monastery? Send you to Enbarr with no word on when I’ll allow you to crawl back?”

“Whatever you deem fitting.”

Edelgard huffs. “All of them would be fitting. And all of them would give you some bizarre measure of satisfaction. So I think, in fact, a much harsher punishment for you would be to do nothing.” She sets the card back on his desk. “As tempting as screaming at you may be.”

She stands, shaking her nightdress so it falls back over her legs. She walks to his bed and sits on the edge with the same grace she would sit in a chair for tea.

She looks at him with more hurt in her eyes than Hubert has ever seen.

“Did you lie to me?” she demands. “Was it all just my own feelings painting over yours?”

His throat is too tight to speak. He shakes his head no.

“Were you only vulnerable because the spell made you so?”

_No._

“Then why?”

He’s familiar with the prickling in his eyes and the salty taste in his mouth that precedes crying—he’s done enough of it for them both by now. But he still hates to be in her presence as the tears bud. He doesn’t deserve the pity, doesn’t deserve the warm hand that rests over his cheek.

“I created that spell,” he finally whispers, “because I am too weak. When you fell on the battlefield, that time you broke your leg, I’d never felt so scared. So useless.” He turns his head to the side, hiding his face in her palm. “I knew I could bear your pain easily. But were I to lose you, I couldn’t bear my own.”

The clock ticks on. Edelgard doesn’t remove her hand. Eventually, she presses lightly against his cheek to turn his face back to hers.

“Asclepius.”

“Asclepius?” he repeats.

She nods. “For the name; you said I could choose. With a name, it can be officially classified, and therefore banned.”

“My lady—”

“You will make a vow.” She takes his chin between her fingers, pinching it firmly to make her point known. “You will never touch it again.”

Hubert swallows with difficulty. “I swear it. You may even burn the notes, if you desire.”

With a nod, Edelgard releases him. And then she reaches for the blankets.

It takes some careful shuffling, but they manage to wedge her in at his side. Hubert hugs her tightly to him with his good arm, fearful that she’s still too close to the edge, that she may fall. She was right: the lack of punishment nags at his heart. The voice in his head is furious that he can be so selfish to accept even this tense, conditional forgiveness. But his body is too tired to do anything but hold her and sink against the bed.

“Remind me.” She’s running her hand along his side, as though counting every rib to make sure they’re still there. “How long was the War of Heroes?”

Hubert closes his eyes. “Sixty-six years. Two generations.”

“You’ve never told me how long you’ve calculated ours will be.”

“There’s no exact answer. It can change with any battle.”

“But you have an answer.”

He exhales, feeling the weight of her arm over his middle, willing it to anchor him.

“Ten at best. At worst, easily twenty or more.”

Hubert opens his eyes when he feels Edelgard raise her head. Shock and then dread flicker over her face. The clock sounds louder than ever in the silence.

“I don’t know what to do.” He would run his hands through his hair if he could. “Ten years of this. I can’t even imagine it. I can’t fathom how to get through it.”

Edelgard takes a deep breath to recompose herself. After a moment, she lays back down, tucking her head on his shoulder.

“We’ll just have to.” Her voice brokers no argument, even so soft. “Both of us.”

In the dark, he finds her hand and squeezes it tightly, until it hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> “Cura te ipsum” comes from the Latin biblical proverb “Medice, cura te ipsum” aka “Physician, heal thyself.” The meaning is commonly interpreted as a moral on hypocrisy, a command to see to your own weaknesses before attempting to fix those of others.
> 
> Asclepius is the Greek god of medicine. One theory on the origin of his symbol, the Rod of Asclepius, is that it represents the traditional cure for dracunculiasis (do NOT google this if you're easily grossed), a literal drawing-out of a parasite.
> 
> His family includes, in order referenced: daughter Panacea, goddess of the universal cure; daughter Aceso, goddess of the healing process; wife Epione, goddess of caring for the sick; and daughter Iaso, goddess of the recuperated.


End file.
